Earth Day  -  The Beginning and Now Its 50th Anniversary

Earth Day is the single most popular secular event held around the world. The event began in the United States in 1970 and was exported around the world by dedicated Americans and naturalists from other countries who held similar views. One of the founders was a man named Morton Hilbert from the U.S. Public Health Service who organized an environmental conference for students to learn about the effects of environmental degradation on human health. For the next two years, Hilbert and students worked to plan the first Earth Day. One of those who became interested in Hilbert’s work was U.S. Senator Gaylord Nelson who issued a proclamation for Earth Day after he toured an environmental disaster in California in 1969. While this Earth Day was focused on a United States event, a separate organization launched by Denis Hayes, who was the original national coordinator for the 1970 Earth Day event, made it international in 1990 and organized similar Earth Day events in 141 nations.

A major impetus for Earth Day began in the aftermath of two American environmental disasters. The first and perhaps most important was a disaster that occurred on January 28, 1969 in the form of an oil spill. The other event that ignited American public interest in the environment was the burning of a river. On June 22, 1969, the Cuyahoga River burst into flames in downtown Cleveland when sparks from a passing train set fire to oil-soaked debris floating on the water’s surface. These two disasters a few months apart provided the spark that ignited an environmental revolution.
When TIME Magazine published dramatic photos of the burning river — so saturated with sewage and industrial waste that it “oozes rather than flows,” concern erupted nationwide. The flaming Cuyahoga became a figurehead for America’s mounting environmental issues and sparked wide-ranging reforms. Note that the picture below was taken in 1952 – evidence that the river has burned several times. In fact, the 1969 burning is a victory of sorts, it is the last time the river burned. Here is the rest of the story.

The Cuyahoga River Fire of 1952 near downtown Cleveland

The worst environmental disaster in the United States in 1969 was the oil spill off the coast of Santa Barbara, California that occurred a few months before the burning of the river in Cleveland. From an oil industry perspective, Santa Barbara was about the worst place imaginable for an oil spill to occur, especially an event of the magnitude that occurred in a place loved my many vacationers. Of the many places that attract tourists, Santa Barbara is one of the best; a picturesque small town facing the south that is pinched between a lovely beachfront shoreline and the scenic mountains behind.

Santa Barbara Shoreline John Wiley User:Jw4nvc - Santa Barbara, California

In the mid 1960’s, the love affair between Americans and their automobiles provoked a cultural change. Their dependence upon autos for most facets of everyday life stimulated an unprecedented demand for gasoline. American oil marketers, the so-called Big Oil companies, were only too happy to respond by drilling wells anywhere and everywhere that oil could be found. One of those places was just off the coast of Santa Barbara, California.
The city and county authorities in Santa Barbara wanted to be certain that drilling for oil would do nothing to harm their tourist business, so they placed restrictions on the oil companies who wanted to drill for the readily accessible oil beneath the ocean’s surface.

Offshore drilling for oil was nothing new to Santa Barbara since it had begun there in 1897. A man named H.L. Williams is credited with drilling a well from a wooden pier in the Santa Barbara Channel in 1897, the first to be drilled entirely in the ocean. He used an island pier to support a land rig located next to an existing oil field. The well was successful for several years, but local authorities wanted to be sure that drilling in the region would not spoil their burgeoning tourist business. California's state authorities heeded their views and established regulations covering the property owned by the state, thus effectively ending offshore oil drilling. But the lure of profits from oil seemed irresistible. By the late 1960's, oil interests had petitioned the US government for drilling rights in federally controlled areas beyond the reach of locals. Off-shore drilling began once again, this time in waters controlled by the Federal Government.

A new boom in off-shore drilling began in the 1960’s after deep well drilling rigs were perfected for off-shore use. A number of rigs began operating around Santa Barbara as soon as the feds sold drilling rights. Union Oil was one of the winning bidders who designed and developed new rigs for new field. Shortly after an off-shore drilling rig was completed, drilling began on new Platform A in January of 1969. By the end of the month several wells had been completed and plans were in place for oil pumping as soon as the delivery systems were in place. But then Platform A had a sudden problem: the new well suddenly blew out; the crew had a gusher that was sending gas, oil, and mud upwards, coating the roustabouts on the platform with a filthy mix of salt water, drilling mud and oil. The drillers knew exactly what to do. They withdrew the drilling pipe and bit and replaced it with a 'blow-out preventer'--a stiff pipe inserted into the well casing with provisions for a cap on its end. The pressure was too much, they were unable to screw the cap in place to prevent the high-pressure oil and gas from its explosive flow. Sensing their failure, the drillers tried a measure of last resort; dropping the entire length of drill pipe, nearly a 1/2-mile-long into the hole they had pierced into the sea floor. As the last section of pipe was attached, the men worked quickly to crush the top of the pipe into a flat section that prevented further flow of oil and gas. It had taken them just 13 minutes to complete the emergency ‘last resort’ operation. They cheered their good fortune as the explosive flow of oil stopped. They had successfully capped the well and stopped the leak. Only it wasn't stopped, the leak simply moved somewhere else.

The first announcement of the potential disaster was made by Union Oil's regional superintendent about two and a half hours after the blowout. The superintendent told the Coast Guard that a well had blown out, but no oil was escaping. The superintendent then held a news conference to announce the spill and the successful capping operation. Everything is under control, he said.  Shortly after the cap was installed an oil bubble and oil slick was noticed near the site of the well. Just residual oil from the leak, they seemed to think.

The seriousness of the spill became evident the next morning when a Coast Guard helicopter took Union Oil Superintendent Brown along with a State Fish and Game warden out over the platform, where they saw a central oil slick that extended several miles east, west, and south of the platform. They estimated a total of 75 square miles was covered by oil less than 24 hours after the blowout. An anonymous worker on the drill rig had telephoned the Santa Barbara News-Press regarding the blowout and the story was out. A Union Oil Vice President, John Fraser, assured reporters and local officials that the spill was small, with a diameter of 1,000 to 3,000 feet, and the leak would be quickly controlled. He said the estimated spill was about 5,000 US gallons. (Later estimates put the spill rate in the first days at about 210,000 US gallons per day).
 
In the next several hours, sharp-eyed observers noticed more oil slicks in the waters surrounding the nearby islands. Finally it dawned on the oil company executives, that the high pressure of the oil and gas beneath had broken through the weak, sandy soil at the ocean bottom and oil was spewing from several ruptures in the earth, many distant from the original drill hole. Evidence of the leaking oil began to be understood as oil slicks began appearing on beaches all around the area. Initially it seemed that no one knew how to control the flow and fix the leak that continued for the next several days. Over the ten-day period of the leak, 80,000 to 100,000 barrels of crude oil spewed from the failed well into the clear coastal waters at a leak rate in excess of 100,000 gallons per hour. It was the largest oil spill in United States waters by that time, and now ranks third after the 2010 Deepwater Horizon leak in the Gulf of Mexico and 1989 Exxon Valdez spill off the coast of Alaska. It remains the largest oil spill to have occurred in the waters off California as result of Union Oil's leak at platform A on the Santa Barbara coast.

Beach clean-up operations at Santa Barbara using straw to absorb oil

The leak galvanized both local and national action to remedy the damage done. Techniques for clean-up of the spilled oil was rudimentary; workers used whatever they had at hand in trying to soak up the oil that was fouling the precious beaches.

The leak became both local and national news. Activists around the country pointed to the leak as an example of failed policies of the US government concerning protection of natural resources. In February of 1969, the President of Union Oil arrived in southern California to see for himself what had happened. He was heckled at the airport and an instant demonstration against big oil erupted. The Santa Barbara spill alarmed the country and awakened those who felt action was needed.

President Nixon was stirred to action. He visited Santa Barbara in March and walked the beach to witness the environmental damage caused by the oil leak and get his picture taken while he talked to local people worried about the problem. His presence furthered the energy of those activists who wanted change. Some months later the Cuyahoga River caught fire in Cleveland and added fuel to the nation’s mood for environmental activism. The two local events quickly fused a national movement for natural resource activism. Four months after his Santa Barbara visit, Nixon established an environmental council in his Cabinet, and in 1970, he established the Environmental Protection Agency and gave the new organization the authority to propose numerous pieces of environmental legislation. Within the next several years, legislation was implemented that now forms the legal and regulatory framework for the modern environmental movement in the U. S.

The first Earth Day was celebrated that same year.

Hunkered Down in Roscommon

Hunkered Down in Roscommon

Like many people across the country, Marjorie and I are pretty much staying home because of the corona virus that is sweeping the country. Our progressive, smart lady governor has implemented strict guidelines to keep Michigan people separated and safe from the bug by shutting down restaurants and bars. My own theory was that alcohol helped kill bugs, but I have to assume the governor knows best so we have been trying to follow all the rules and advice that we hear on our glowing rectangles. (I did, however, stock up on booze just to hedge my bets.)

 Since we have fewer things to keep us occupied, we have been watching a lot of TV. The national news seems to have a new story every day about how the disease is getting worse by the hour. They also offer tips on what to do to avoid getting dead. I’m not sure the advice is any good. Everything I learn about the virus makes it seem that the nasty little bug is out to get me. For example, the corona bug is hardest on seniors and is also guilty of sexual discrimination since it strikes down men at twice the mortality rate as women. Besides, I am having a hard time following all the rules about avoiding the bug. They said don’t touch your face so I gave up shaving. That only lasted one day since my unshaven beard itched, and I touched my face over a hundred times that day. I also was unable to give up my morning walk to the coffee klatch attended by two or three other old codgers like me.

Obeying the advice about social distancing is also hard for me. Staying six feet away from people during conversation is hard since my hearing aids seem to have a conversational range of just under five feet.
The prohibition against touching someone or, God forbid, breathing the same air as someone else, is also tough after a lifetime of hand shaking and breathing.

Although our state officials are trying to help, the Federal government offers no help at all and our poor President is completely out of his league when he tries discussing anything more scientific than bubble gum. Fortunately, the infectious disease medicine specialist Dr. Fausi is on hand for all of the President’s news briefings to contradict him at each of his misstatements. Fausi is unable, however, to assist with any reporter’s questions as the President is quick to jump in with his stock answer: “You are a bad reporter!”

Even my doctor didn’t offer any help for me. “You seem well enough to me,” he said, “let’s just skip your next appointment.”

I lasted almost two weeks in trying to adhere to the rules. But today, I had enough. For the first time in two weeks, I suggested to the wife that we drive to town and enjoy ourselves with a few of the diversions that our village of Roscommon offers, topped off by a nice brunch at a local restaurant. She agreed with a surplus of energy suggesting she too, had enough of corona virus isolation.

We left in late morning and drove the six miles to town in hot anticipation of our first day away from home in (it seemed like) several months. Our first stop was a surprise that the wife sprang on me. She insisted that we stop at the Rite Aid store in downtown Roscommon. “Whatever for?” I asked.

“Wait till we go inside and then I’ll surprise you,” she said coyly. It sounded exciting, so I followed her in.

The surprise was something we had been waiting for, but not something I really wanted. It was time for our second shot to finish the vaccination process for shingles. The first shot was several weeks earlier, but I still had the memory of a sore arm. Only the chance to shop for some badly needed provisions made the surprise shot in the arm a little more bearable. Jim, the pharmacist who administered today’s shot remembered me. “Oh yes, you’re the fellow who screamed at the first shot I administered. We lost a number of sales that day when several customers left the store.” He paused for my response. I couldn’t think of a thing to say, but I did look about to see if any other customers were nearby. Since no one was listening, I thought silence was my best defense and the pharmacist went ahead with the business of plunging the needle deep into my arm without a trace of compassion.

After our shots, we had a pleasant interlude of shopping for supplies for the continuing sentence of home isolation. More about that later. “Let’s go to the car wash and get the truck washed,” I offered since I wanted to continue basking in the glow of purposeful activity outside on my own four walls. We did the carwash and wonder of wonder, I still had the coupon for the lower-priced multiple car wash, having not lost it in the jumble of a man’s truck stuff. It was like hitting the lottery on your birthday.

Since the shop that had my broken chainsaw was closed, I suggested to Marjorie we skip that adventure and that it was time for the main event of our outing, our purchased brunch that needed neither preparation nor clean-up. We were both hungry and both excited for our first store-bought meal in some time. Further, since we had no reason to debate our brunch site selection, I pulled the truck across the street and into MacDonald’s carryout line. Another treat; no one else was in line. We ordered our Big Mac’s and fries and cokes. The former 45 cent meal had escalated in price; the change from a twenty-dollar bill was a few singles and some nearly worthless coins. We took our brunch from the drive-thru lady and drove the two blocks to park alongside the river in the warm, sunny day that had managed to almost reach 32 degrees. We lowered the windows on the truck until the snow began to creep in like dust in a neglected closet.

The Big Mac’s hit the spot. We gulped them down before beginning the drive home to finish the best part of our outing- the shelving of our carefully considered and purchased essentials that would help see us through the next phase of our confinement. I had the honor of carrying the purchases from our truck to the house and therefore the pleasure of enumerating and storing each of the several dozen candy bars, the gallon of ice cream, the blow-pop suckers and, not the least, the mustard flavored pretzels that would go wonderfully with the homemade beer. Since we already had popcorn stored away and I had purchased wine and liquor earlier, we agreed we were well-provisioned for another stint of hunkering down in Roscommon.

Stay healthy.

Winter Walking

Winter Walking

I may have told you that I walk to my coffee klatch most mornings despite whatever the weatherman throws my way. This morning walk follows my lifetime habit of walking whenever circumstances afforded me the opportunity to enjoy the outdoors and I had the time for a leisurely stroll. During my working days, I often used a portion of my lunch hour to leave the office and walk around the neighborhood of wherever place I happened to be. In the summer months, wife Marjorie and I frequently walked together in the evening around the neighborhoods of our Clarkston, Michigan hometown just for the pleasure of a brief respite from the cares of everyday life.

After our three sons began to participate in Boy Scouts, their activities provoked Marjorie and I to begin longer hiking trips into the back woods. For several years, we devoted some of our precious vacation time to backpacking trips, walking through the woods with our camping gear, food and water carefully ensconced in bottles and bags on our backs. It was on one of those backpack trips that I discovered that some walks are harder than others. One section of a hike on the Pictured Rocks hiking trail passed over a sandy beach. The beach sand seemed to suck in each footfall, making every step a challenge to stay erect and balanced given the backpack and its burden during the warm weather.

We haven’t walked the backpack trails in some while as the rigors of the practice and the resultant soreness now seem more severe than the pleasures derived. Since my retirement, however; I have continued walking for exercise and pleasure, finding solace in the woods and rural character of our current neighborhood. Besides that, I consider it my duty to keep an eye out for any apparent wrongdoing to fulfill my role as neighborhood curmudgeon.

So, you see I have lengthy experience in walking and sufficient chutzpah to offer this treatise about foot-based ambulatory excursions in the North Woods. The first thing I learned about walking here is that the pleasure derived is highly dependent on the season, the weather, and the conditions of the pathway that I choose to walk upon.

Mosquitoes and black flies are a substantial risk in spring time walking as the critters grow to proportions that make blood donations unnecessary in warm weather. Cold weather walking generally offers freedom from the aforementioned pests, but it also eliminates the pleasure of listening to bird songs and the calls of frogs and other vocalizing critters. The walks in summer and fall are only occasionally disrupted by neighborhood visitors who seem to think it is their duty to disrupt the peaceful character of our wooded area by ear-splitting, open-air machines that travel much too fast for a motorcycle, snowmobile, or four-wheeler, all of which are operated without seat belts or other attributes signaling a dose of common sense.

My morning walks to the coffee klatch necessarily involves walking on the paved road that serves as my pathway to the neighbor’s house. A recent February morning’s walk is instructive of one of the many walking hazards that need exposure by a curmudgeon like me. You should first understand that roads are not the exclusive domain of motorists. Most roads in our nation, especially in rural areas like mine, were planned and built long before cars existed. The traffic expected by those who planned our roads was primarily walkers and those who drove horse-pulled contrivances. Car and truck drivers were late arrivals who began using the roads only in the last century. The point of this discussion is to illustrate that walkers, bicyclists, runners, horse drivers and other road users have both preemptive and legal rights to use our roads just as much as do motorists. Now, back to my winter walk of last month.

The roadway was covered in snow, about six inches, and no more than three or four cars had passed by judging from the few tracks through the snow following the route that the drivers believed was the actual road. The temperature was in the teens and the 20 mile per hour wind added to the challenge. I thought back to the beach sand and decided that this walk was my second worst as I trudged along, trying to minimize the effect of the snow by walking in the tire tracks. I was content with the silence of the walk as the snow provided a blanket on everything and my headgear further insulated me from almost any sound. Thus it was that I didn’t hear the approaching vehicle that had also chosen the center of the road for his pathway. He was traveling way faster than me, too fast for a snow-covered road. Suddenly the sounds of his motor reached my ears and I turned to see a pick-up truck heading straight for me. I lunged to the side of the road as he whipped by me, making no apparent effort to swerve to the side, probably the correct approach as a sudden move would have likely caused a skid. It was too close for comfort. Had I had been able, I would have spoken sharply to the offending driver as befitting my role as curmudgeon, but instead the vehicle continued down the road, seemingly oblivious to the close call.

In hindsight, I realize the driver was not guilty of malfeasance. He (or she) was just going about the business of daily life, in a hurry, and guilty of nothing more than being unaware of a solitary walker making his way down a snowy road on a weekday morning. His and my life almost took a terrible turn but, in the end, continued without so much as a ruffled hat or slipped boot print.

And now on the eve of the arrival of spring, our road has mostly returned to bare pavement save for the ice in front of my house and driveway. I expect that it too will soon be gone and with it the reminder of winter and the frailty of life while walking on a snow-covered road. And yesterday, as a postmark to an eventful week, I went grocery shopping with wife Marjorie in a nearby Amish shop. As I waited near the check-out line, a little girl of three or four bobbed about while her slightly older brother wandered nearby. She must have noticed me because she soon tugged her brother around the corner to point me out. “Look at the old man!” she said, to the smiles and chuckles of several nearby shoppers. I couldn’t help myself from smiling also, although I did slink away as soon as I reasonably could.

Birthday Present

Birthday Present

You may have noticed that my wife Marjorie celebrated her birthday this week on the 12^th of February. Yes, she shares her birthday with Abraham Lincoln and I have been forever grateful for her foresight in choosing that date; I would probably be in the doghouse most years, had it nor been for the coincidence of the two dates.

And before I forget, thanks to the multitude of you who saw fit to wish her a happy birthday on her big day. She looked at every wish that was offered and I think she did indeed have a happy birthday. I thought it most interesting how so many of you found novel ways to say ‘Happy Birthday” without really saying those rather mundane words.

I had a hard time for my contribution to her birthday. I spoke with her and other women about a suitable birthday gift. It didn’t help. As I recall I offered a diamond or diamonds, a precious stone-encrusted bracelet and other baubles. “No,” she said, “I don’t really need any new jewelry, but I would like something special this year, something I could really use.”

It sounded to me like a kiss of death. She was asking for something special – something I had no idea how to satisfy. I fell into a discussion with a lady friend that I knew to be a birthday present connoisseur. Her response was not at all helpful.

“I don’t really have birthdays,” she informed me. “I have birthday months. We generally visit Florida during my birthday month so I look for special things down there for my celebrations. It’s a treat.”

As far as I had been informed, we weren’t traveling to Florida any time even close to February. The selection of a suitable present seemed to be going nowhere fast. In fact, despite my subtle hints about the matter, I assumed the topic was of little interest to my beloved. Boy, was I wrong as I began to learn after her birthday came and went this week. Today, she seemed willing for some extended shopping to finally select a suitable present, despite the fact that we had already consumed her birthday dinner at a local emporium. On our shopping venture, I soon learned that she had not only selected a present that she wanted; she also knew the exact store where I could procure it, how much it would cost, and exactly where in the store it was located.

I was relieved. At this point in my desperate search for answers, I would have bid on the Brooklyn Bridge if that were the object of her desires. I went to the store, Rite Aid, purchased the gift, and returned home in the same afternoon with the gift in hand. I showed it to her and she verified the exactness of my selection. I asked if she wanted me to wrap the unusual gift. She looked at me quizzically. I took the look to mean that mine was a dumb suggestion. (Another win for me.) She said she wanted to use it today and would I please help set it up for her use. I practically fell over in searching for an electrical cord that was needed to operate the gadget.

Let me cut to the chase. The gift was a heating pad. Not just any heating pad that we already have two of; rather, this special heating pad provides warm, MOIST heat to soothe the treated body parts. Upon inspection, I learned that the moisture comes from a damp washrag that the user places inside the bag housing the heater.

She used the heater today and pronounced it exactly what she wanted.

I think my good luck in procuring the exact gift comes from our lengthy wedded bliss. After all, she is an old white woman and I am a doddering, old curmudgeon who has followed her along our winding pathway of life for more than 50 years. It makes birthday presents seem like a minor thing, although it is good to get the correct one on occasion. HAPPY BIRTHDAY, MARJORIE.

An Obituary

An Obituary

This year, shortly after all the Christmas cards had been opened, examined and discussed, another card arrived. This one, an orphan among all the others from friends and family, was noteworthy in both its late arrival and the return address that indicated a sender unknown to either Marjorie or me. It came from Hudson, Mi. We looked at each other quizzically. Marjorie opened and then passed it over to me with a two word explanation, “an obituary.”


I put the letter and card away only to retrieve it and re-read it again yesterday. This obituary and the related story is too good for a single reading, I thought. It deserves sharing among friends. Here it is:


Phyllis (Uhl) Bradford was born April 30, 1923 in Kendallville, Indiana. She had a single sister and brother, Dorothy and Robert Uhl. (For unexplained reasons), she spent her school years on her grandparent’s farm, near Hudson, Michigan.


Phyllis was a bright young girl. Her teachers noted how fast she learned and it soon became apparent that she was ahead of all her peers even at an early age. She was promoted from 1^st grade into the 3^rd, and then again from 5^th to 7^th. She graduated from Hudson High School at age 16 as the valedictorian. In later years when she didn’t know something that her husband thought she should have, he jokingly told her “You would have learned that in 6^th grade.”


After Phyllis graduated from high school, she moved from the farm and joined her mother who was living in Detroit. Phyllis found work with a company that did bookkeeping and taxes for small companies that needed help. The work was enjoyable for her and she stayed on as World War II began. The newspaper stories about the war made Phyllis think about serving her country. The Marine Corps created the Marine Corps Women's Reserve in 1943, allowing women to serve. A lady named Ruth Cheney Streeter was its first director. Under her leadership, over 20,000 women Marines served in World War II, in over 225 different specialties. The women marines filled 85 percent of the enlisted jobs at Marine Corps Headquarters and comprised one-half to two-thirds of the permanent personnel at major Marine Corps posts. However, it was not until after World War II, in 1948, that the Women's Armed Services Integration Act of 1948 gave women permanent status in the Regular and Reserve forces of the Marines.

Phyllis spent 25 months as an active duty soldier. Her duty was a payroll clerk at the large base in San Diego. Phyllis spent much of her free time playing on the base basketball and baseball teams. It was the beginning of a love affair with sports that she maintained her entire life. Phyllis said the uncertainty of the war made her two -year stint in San Diego the longest period of her life, although she enjoyed the camaraderie of the Corp and the sports.


After the war ended, Phyllis returned to Michigan and enrolled in Wayne State University under the provisions of the GI Bill. She earned her degree from Wayne, graduating as an accountant. She quickly found work in her field and began employment in the area. Over time, she worked at several small businesses, helping each firm with their payroll and taxes
.

Phyllis attended a Unitarian Church in Detroit. One Sunday she was in line for coffee when the person behind her said hello. It was the beginning of a love affair for the attractive, youngish woman who was just shy of her 40^th birthday. The man who captivated her interest was a school teacher, a man named Bradford who had left the farm in Ohio, but the farm had never left him. They married in 1963 just after Phyllis’ 40^th birthday. Don Bradford accepted a job teaching elementary school in the Clarkston School District.


Our paths converged while he taught at the Andersonville Elementary in 1967 when a newly-wed young lady, wife Marjorie, joined the school district and occupied a classroom near Don’s. Marjorie and I both worked during this period, and she found Don’s offer of a ride to school helpful since both the Tudor family and the Bradford family were close-by neighbors in the rural area of Davisburg, Michigan. Soon enough, the two couples became a foursome at occasional school functions or other events thus uniting the four of us in a lasting friendship.


Don’s farming-related hobbies enlarged to become Phyllis’s preoccupations as well. When he raised pigeons, Phyllis helped in preparing the birds for the dinner table. When he wrote and produced a family newspaper, “The Bradfordville News.” Phyllis was editor, printer and helpful distributor. The hobbies occupied their summertime’s as they temporarily moved from their Big Lake home to Michigan’s Upper Peninsula where they could raise sheep until the schoolyear began anew. Another newspaper ensued, “Sheep Tales” and Phyllis resumed her duties in the world of tiny newspapers.


Time intervened in their love affair as the senior Don began to show his age. He passed quietly at home. Although his funeral service was conducted by Unitarian lady minister, Phyllis took charge at the end, thanking those who attended, assuring mourners that she could handle things from now on, and was there anyone in the audience who wanted to take home one of the beautiful baskets of flowers? It seemed a fitting ending as the enterprising Phyllis went on with her life.


Don’s passing was only a temporary hurdle for Phyllis. She discarded the old hobbies from Don and renewed her devotion to sports. She began anew by playing basketball, volleyball, baseball, softball and bowling. Trophies began to pile up at the old house she and Don shared across the road from Big Lake. She was Senior Olympics free throw gold medalist for Michigan, and her volleyball team became National Senior Olympics Champions.


As her generation began to pass into obscurity and World War II vets began to die off, Phyllis began to wonder what she ought to do to assure a gradual transition into the cares of old age. The demands of living alone seemed to increase as time passed and she ultimately decided to take a step backwards in time by renewing her association with the United States Military.


The United States military has a checkered history when it comes to caring for its troops. Until late in the Civil War, troops who were injured on the field of battle were on their own. Only cursory care was given to those wounded, most were sent home to be cared for by their relatives, and stipends for their care were available only after many had already expired from their injuries.

The American troops who served in the 1845 Mexican-American War were among those who were subjected to such shabby and limited care until their commander, General Winfield Scott, began a campaign to change things for his men. After Scott’s army drubbed the Mexicans in a decisive battle, he sued for peace. His terms were onerous, the Mexicans had to pay a brutal war reparation or he threatened to lay siege to Mexico City. Scott demanded a payment of $150,000, a formidable fortune in those days. The Mexicans yielded and Scott left the city intact and returned home where he used part of the money to pay off his troops and purchase new supplies for the remainder of his army.


Scott returned to Washington and met with Congress. He told them he wanted to see to the well-being of his retiring troops, some of whom were injured and devoid of any means to earn a living and some who had no family to return to. “I want you to build an Old Soldiers Home for these deserving men with the balance of these funds,” Scott demanded from the Congress. He left unsaid what he might do with the money if Congress failed to meet his demands. In the end, Congress appropriated enough money to purchase a farm northwest of the city of Washington for Scott’s Old Soldiers Home. Housing began to take shape for the old troopers. One of the earliest residents of the property was President Abraham Lincoln who had a summer home built there. The Old Soldiers Home grew as vets from around the country began to learn of the facility for retired military.


The retired Marine Phyllis had never lost her patriotic fervor and she decided to leave her Michigan home forever and take up residence at the Old Soldiers Home in 2007. Some years after she moved, Marjorie and I went to see her. She arranged for us to stay at the home in their modest guest quarters. Our first hand inspection and three-day visit showed the wisdom of General Scott. The rooms were small, but adequate, and the buildings were old and somewhat out of date, as might be expected for an old facility. The dining area had the look of a college dining hall and everywhere there were volunteers from among the ‘old soldiers’ who lived there.

The home is located on beautiful property that features ball fields and a host of other recreational facilities. Phyllis was in her element. Her favorite memory was the time she was served her dinner by President Barack Obama and wife Michelle. Phyllis kept busy as a volunteer at the Home. She continued her sports career and served as the manager of the Home’s bowling alley and kept the books for the souvenir shop.


After our visit to the Home, we never saw Phyllis again although we exchanged letters in our Christmas cards every year. Phyllis’s card was always the first to arrive and she invariably recounted her athletic endeavors in her letter tucked inside the card. Although her hand writing became a test to decipher, her friendship and determination always showed through. This year, Phyllis’s card did not arrive in early December. Instead, we found a kind note from one of Phyllis’s nephews, dated several days after Christmas. The note was terse: “Phyllis passed away June 27, 2019 in Washington D. C. She was 96 years of age. She has been cremated and her ashes will be in the Memorial Garden at the Unitarian Universalist Church Flint Michigan.”


We will miss Phyllis. Her devotion to her husband and her country were inspiring and her friendship was enduring. Sometimes life is hard.

Welcome to the new year and this report of my recent activities.

From Curmudgeon to Fixin’ Problems

I wanted you to know that I have taken on a new hobby in addition to my regular work of overseeing my neighborhood. That, and keeping my coffee-drinkin’ buddies informed of neighborhood skullduggery used to be my sole occupation until I decided on new work that has the decidedly larger potential of saving the world.


My new pastime is needed because of ill-informed people like I us’ta be. You can see right off that this new hobby requires a lot of time and effort. It’s jus’ a good thing that retiree’s like me have the time, dedication, and experience to settin’ things right that youngsters nowadays jus’ don’t have. Of course, the problem is that youngsters are runnin’ things.


The problem that I have dedicated my time to is straws. Yes, straws. Did you know that straws are a world-wide problem? We use billions and billions of straws in the US not to mention the additional gazillions used world-wide. They are everywhere. And that is the problem: straws end up polluting our rivers, lakes and oceans.

California tried to solve the straw problem earlier this year by passing a bill that would have outlawed single-use plastics. “California proposes phaseout of single-use plastics by 2030” their headlines screamed. The bill that young legislators in California proposed would have outlawed plastic water bottles, plastic utensils, carry-out plastic bowls from fast food places, plastic bags and, importantly, straws.


You might know that California already has instituted a ban on plastic straws for restaurant use. This has provoked a resurgence of, can you guess? PAPER STRAWS. The very same that you and I used throughout our high school years at the soda shop after school. Whoever decided to replace paper straws with plastic really screwed up things. Why, I just watched a vet removing a plastic straw from the nose of a threatened sea turtle who had no use for the thing at all as blood streamed from the nostrils of the poor critter.


Some while ago, the world press and our ‘fake news’ became aware of a floating island of plastic trash between Hawaii and California. It was found swirling in the ocean currents, stuck in one place, hidden from all but a few intrepid sailors who happened upon a mess that was larger than the state of Texas. Texas, that is. Now there is not one of these gyres, but three. The aforementioned one and two others further south of more recent origin. All are expanding at a rapid rate, and ocean vessels are advised to steer clear of the trash that is killing ocean birds and fishes at an alarming rate. 

The mass of materials in the gyre includes plastics of all types, sizes, shapes and colors and all of it floats, either upon the surface of the ocean or slightly below. One of the shapes floating along serenely are our friendly straws, bobbing along happily, an emblematic representation of our practice involving use, toss, forget, then look the other way when a plastic mess ends up in the ocean.


The plastics industry in the US is alarmed by the California proposal of banning some small portion of their output. Their trade association has weighed into the controversy. Faced with the epic proportions of the problem, the American Chemistry Council (representing resin manufacturers) offered a solution that fooled no one. “We’d welcome the opportunity to work with [California] Senator Allen and all stakeholders on efforts to recycle and recover more plastic material so that it doesn’t become waste or ocean litter.” Sure, and we should all clean our plates at each meal.


Available data indicates that American consumers are lousy at recycling. We recycle plastics at a rate of about 10% depending upon the region of the country and that region’s aggressiveness in recycling. This disappointing rate of recycling has remained relatively constant since the beginnings of the plastic industry with 90% of the material that has ever been produced (millions and millions of pounds) being discarded, much of it being sent to landfills. Recycling is not the answer. Our current paltry efforts of recycling plastics have gotten worse not better, since a year or so ago the Chinese began refusing to accept any plastics for re-use from the US due to contamination.


The plastic industry has now confirmed that the plastics stored in our landfills is likely to last forever since the landfills are sealed after they become full; hence the plastics are not subject to weathering. The question is, when will all those discarded plastic straws, bottles and other doodads become too much for us? Since it is clear to me that the plastics industry is unwilling and unable to mount any solutions that might reduce their profit bonanza, I decided to step in with my own reasoned suggestions. I forwarded my solutions to the governing officials in the State of Michigan via a letter to their Director. Amazingly, the Director hasn’t yet found time to call me about my suggestions despite the brilliance of both the ideas and the epistle upon which the ideas were recorded. Will wonders never cease?


My common-sense proposals centered on legislative action to enforce return and reuse of plastics. I pointed to the success of Michigan’s bottle deposit law and how simple it would be to update and extend the bottle return law to other plastic containers and increase the size of the deposit from its current measly 10 cents to an inflation-adjusted 38 cents per bottle. “Michigan should reclaim its mantle of environmental leadership across the nation!” I exclaimed with what I hoped who be interpreted as a shout out.


My exclamations apparently didn’t move the Director to action. Accordingly, I decided on a new tack, this one exclusively in my control. Effective immediately, my betrothed and I have sworn off the use of plastic straws and plastic lids at our neighborhood McDonalds and Subway, the only options available to us. No more of our debris from this source will be going to a local landfill. I am expecting that my leadership will catch on and we’ll soon see the end of plastic straws and similar useless containers.


So, think of me if you happen to see someone spilling his drink because it is lidless and strawless. Further, if he has a stain on his shirt from previous spilled drinks like I do, you’ll know my idea is finally catching on. Feel free to join in and be a stained shirt kind of guy like me.


Bill

A Warning

A Warning

In September of 2018, a highly-placed source working in the west wing of the White House submitted an article to the New York Times about the presidency of Donald Trump. The Op-Ed piece was critical of the President, revealing many of his questionable job practices that stemmed from his deeply ingrained personality characteristics.


The author of the piece asked to be anonymous. The reason was simple; the source was a close confidant, working on the Presidents’ staff and dealing with him on a regular basis, helping with the most sensitive matters of his presidency. Were he (or she) to be unmasked would be the end of his employment and the end of his ongoing effort to help the President and the Republican party avoid some of the most disastrous decisions the inexperienced President often tried to implement.

The anonymous author now has a book on the same subject. This piece is a review of that book. I am providing this book report in the belief that American voters should be informed about the current occupant of the White House and candidate for re-election to the highest office in the land before they cast their votes less than a year from now.


The anonymous author is a patriot. He explained that he went to work in the White House full of hope and enthusiasm for Republican policies that he supported along with the new President. He found that some wheels began to fall off the train before the transition team had completed their work and the new Administration was in place. The source soon learned that the reason for many of the problems was the boss – the inexperienced politician who had never before held office and who knew virtually nothing about the government and how it functioned.

So, enough about the author and his motivation, sit back and take in this view of the President of the United States, he who was elected to the highest office in the nation despite losing the popular vote of the people.

A Warning

The book begins with a recitation of Donald Trump’s character traits that became apparent to the senior staff early in his new Administration. The most important character flaws that were quickly apparent were Trump’s inattentiveness and impulsiveness. Despite their care in explaining how government agencies worked, it seemed that Trump intentionally didn’t listen and/or didn’t understand his aides who were trying to help. Over and over he proposed policies that were unlawful or impossible to implement. His intent to overturn all the executive orders that former President Obama had implemented was his announced policy and aides scurried to prepare new orders that the President needed to sign to overturn Obama policies. The support staff soon found that any decision by the President was never actualized until the deed was done in front of television cameras. Before that step, the President’s incessant Tweeting often overturned decisions that might have been taken just hours earlier. The office was in chaos. That was the beginning and it has continued until the present due to the President’s inability to set a course and keep it for more than a few hours or days at most. “I always second guess things,” he says.


Communication with the President was always problematical since the President didn’t listen very well. His favorite means of obtaining input came from watching television, specifically Fox News and other extreme right-wing media. Government agencies with their highly-trained, skilled and educated personnel seemed to matter to him not at all. The staff soon learned that the President’s impulses and sometimes wrong information was all he needed to make important decisions. Often these sudden decisions obviated months of work by the military and other agencies.

Staff agencies like the CIA, State Department and others were advised to dispense with planning and briefing books for the President. He didn’t read them. Oval Office, face to face briefings were requested instead. Initially the officers of agency staffs brought their briefing books with them. The President often became angry at the affront of the mere sight of their books. “They don’t mean anything,“ the President fumed.


The senior staff swung into action. “Bring pictures,” they told the agency heads, “he likes pictures. And don’t bring up too many points to discuss or he’ll get confused and angry.” Before the briefings were cancelled altogether, the President’s staff suggested to agency heads that they should bring but one picture and plan to discuss only a single issue at each visit. That worked better for awhile until some visitor happened to stop by the President’s office with a different point of view. Often that would become the new policy especially if the President seemed to like the latest visitor. Senior staff were forced to explain the latest policy decision and hope that it could be implemented at lower levels of government despite the flip flop in direction.


Trump does not have a set of Conservative policy positions. He flip-flops from liberal views to conservative depending upon the last visitor to his office or what he sees on television. Surprisingly, (to many readers) he has been ‘pro choice’ (allowing women to decide if they want an abortion) for much of his career. He suddenly changed his view when he decided to run for president, becoming “so deeply pro-life [against abortions] that he believed there has to be some form of punishment for women who have abortions.” Of course, there was a political angle to his sudden flip flop. Complicating his new policy position were the rumors that some of his previous lovers had used the abortion card at his expense.


In fact, through much of his life, Trump identified as a liberal. During his real estate career, Trump changed his political party affiliation five times.

“Over the last three decades, Trump has changed his political party registration five times. He has been a member of the Independence Party, the Democratic Party, the Republican Party, a registered independent, and then decided he was a Republican again. In 2004, Trump confessed to CNN, I probably identify more as a Democrat. In 2007. He praised Hillary Clinton and said ‘I think Hillary would do a good job [as President]’.” 


Of course, Mr. Trump disavows these statements now and continues to disparage Hillary Clinton and Barack Obama despite the fact that Hillary was cleared of all legal missteps and Trump’s vilification of Barack Obama’s birth was also disproved several years ago. {Mr. Trump’s most obvious lies like the Obama birthplace seem to have little influence on his supporters]. Mr. Obama seems an especial thorn in Trump’s side as he continues to disparage the former President for no apparent reason. Perhaps it is because Obama had more success in achieving Republican goals than has Mr. Trump as noted below.


One of the touchstones of Republican policy has been the size of government and its seeming largess in handling our money. To assure that I characterize this story correctly, I decided to quote this passage directly.


“The US federal budget deficit was actually declining under the Obama Administration, from $1.4 trillion when Obama took office, to $587 bIllion in 2016, just before he left office. Credit for the downward trend goes to Congressional Republicans who forced a stand-off with the White House in 2011. They demanded a budget deal that would bring the deficit under control. The result was the Budget Control Act, a law that would slash federal spending, … and place a cap on [federal spending.]”

“Donald Trump was not interested in penny pinching. He may try to project the image of a man trying to save taxpayer dollars, and its true he can be talked out of stupid ideas if they cost too much. But that’s not because he is trying to save money that can go back to the American taxpayers. He still wants to spend the money, just on things in which he’s personally interested such as bombs and border security. Today he is sparing no expense on the executive branch, spending so freely it makes the money burning days of the Trump organization look like the five-dollar tables at a Vegas casino. Trump recoils at ‘people who are cheap.’ As a result, the budget deficit has increased every year since Donald Trump took office, returning to dangerous levels. The president is on track to spend nearly a trillion dollars above what the government takes in annually. Just look at 2019. The President proposed a record breaking 4.7 trillion-dollar budget.”


Since Trump took office, the US debt has grown to $22 trillion. Each of us taxpayers would owe the equivalent of $400,000, an amount that only a tiny minority of rich Americans could manage and those who are least likely to pay their fair share. Donald Trump has America back on the road to bankruptcy. This, despite the fact that he promised to eliminate the entire American debt during his first term in office. It seems he didn’t really mean it when he was campaigning or he was too ignorant of the magnitude of the task.


Trump has also reneged on other Republican Party principles. While Reince Priebus was head of the National Republican Party the top staff released a report indicating the steps needed for the party to regain dominance in American political life. The report urged conservatives to broaden their base by being more inclusive of “Hispanic, Black, Asian, and gay Americans, and especially women.” Trump seems to have no loyalty to the Republican Party as he harps against minorities and immigrants despite its effect on party membership.


Lack of loyalty is a part of Trump’s personality as must be concluded from his martial history: a man who paid hush money to a porn star he’d been sleeping with while married to his third wife who had recently given birth to their son. This followed the failure of his two previous marriages due to infidelity on his part and the claims of sexual attacks on scores of other women. Not much of a loyalty record you would want for one who has promised to do the bidding of the electorate.

Trump’s ignorance of how the US government works is topped only by his apparent disregard and or ignorance of the law. He has confessed multiple times to instances that most pundits think are examples of law-breaking such as his televised remark that he would take foreign intelligence about his political rivals anytime. When told it was against the law, he becomes angry. His practice is to force his lawyers to say that such violations are acceptable. He browbeats, then presses them to get to yes on his behalf. Many are reluctant to face his withering attacks. “We can tell when Trump is preparing to ask his lawyers to do something unethical because that’s when he starts scanning the room for notetakers.”


“What the f**k are you doing?” he screamed at an aide who was scribbling in a note book. The room went silent as the aide seemed confused at what was taking place. “Are you f**king taking notes?” Trump continued, glaring at the aide as another low in interpersonal relations was reached.

Trump’s disdain for the law extends to judges and the lawsuits that he loses. When Trump was found guilty of fraud in the case of his Trump University scam, he screamed his vitriol at the judge who ruled on the case. Trump said the judge was biased because of his Mexican heritage. It’s in the record since the exchange was captured on live TV. By the way, the judge came from Indiana.


The failures of the current Administration in diplomacy have been dramatic. Trump has exploded the long-standing US policy of refusing to meet with dictators who have long records of human-rights abuse. His apparent adoration of Vladimir Putin, Saudi Arabia’s Prince who arranged the murder of journalist Khashoggi, and the dictator he fell in love with, Kim Jong Un, are instances where Trump’s meetings and visits have yielded no good results. Trump’s Intelligence Chiefs and Staff aides all warned him of the hazards of meetings with these villains, but Trump ignored their advice, preferring instead to do as he wished, including inviting emissaries of these leaders into the Oval Office. Adding insult to expected injury, Trump invited Russian journalists into the office while excluding American journalists. No one has ever given an explanation for this extraordinary behavior, although one top national security aide offered his explanation, “The President sees in these guys [Putin, etc.] what he wishes he had: total power, no term limits, enforced popularity, and the ability to silence critics for good.”


Our national security experts are worried about Trump’s lack of a foreign policy beyond his love affairs with dictators. China is of ongoing concern. The current US policy toward China it totally focused on tariffs and trade, a topic that the President doesn’t understand and is unwilling to learn. The view held by our foreign policy experts is that skilled diplomats from many other nations recognize the President is a simplistic pushover, easily swayed by outsized flattery putting the US at risk.


Perhaps the most serious concern about Mr. Trump is his proclivity to demonize anyone who differs with him on any issue. Using crude language, he encourages his supporters toward mob behavior. Watch any Trump rally and you’ll hear crude language delivered to cheering crowds who want to “lock her up” or “send her back” or dozens of other aggressive taunts. The consequence of this mob mentality can be frightening. Trump optimizes these occasions and invariably the truth becomes the first casualty. At an event in Florida, Trump was in high gear, egging on the crowd about the so-called risks of immigration. “How do you stop these people?” he asked rhetorically. Someone shouted, “shoot them.” The President smiled his encouragement.


This type of behavior was not new. During the 2016 campaign, candidate Trump displayed some of the same type behavior during the debates. Several Republican competitors and leaders in the party found the courage to comment calling Trump a “race-baiting xenophobic.” Nothing about his attitude has changed, he is still the same racist as before except that his Republican associates are now afraid to label his offenses for what they are.


The book comes to a close with a lengthy warning concerning the possibility of Trump being re-elected in 2020, again with Russian help as in 2016. The “senior official in the Trump Administration” warns that after his re-election, Trump will feel empowered to give rise to his worst impulses as he interprets his re-election as a mandate from the masses for doing whatever he chooses. The warning is that our democracy may not be able to survive eight years of Trump as he works to devolve our nation from a free, representative form of government depending upon the assent of the governed to a dictatorship where the President is all-powerful, free from oversite by the Congress or the Courts. The President has said as much publicly. He will not exit quietly or easily. He is already commenting that ’coups’ are afoot and ‘civil war’ is in the offing if he is forced to leave his office. He is setting the narrative for his followers to justify some action that would end tragically for us and our children.


Will we let him continue his shenanigans past the next election?